


Lie Down with Wolves

by softwired



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Whump, Witch!Stiles, Witches, forceful teenage attempts at seduction, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softwired/pseuds/softwired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles turns eighteen and there's something he wants from Derek. But, life as a witch-adjacent werewolf sidekick is complicated and trying to get close to Derek brings on more threatening things than just rejection. 16k+ words</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie Down with Wolves

A bird gives a throaty call in the distance. Once, twice. Stiles listens for it, watching through the trees and his breath where it fogs in the air. It’s silent again.

His palms press into the bark of the tree at his back, scraping, fingers turning white with the cold and the pressure. The bird calls again, then the beat of its wings echo through the barren woods.

Stiles runs. He sprints along a high ridge and then throws himself down it. His body rolls and skids, dead leaves flying in his wake. He hits level ground again with a grunt. There’s dirt in his hair and mud smeared across his collar, down the front of his hoodie. He spits some out of his mouth as he gets back on his feet. Behind him on the ridge, a dead branch falls from a tree.

“Shit !”

He takes off running again, breath going ragged as he mounts a hill. A dry sapling in his path becomes a handhold before it cracks and leaves him sprawling. He scrambles to his feet and darts behind a tree three times his girth. He curls into its shadow, covers his mouth, and waits.

The woods are silent. No birds call, no leaves are left on the trees to rattle in the breeze. This far out, civilization might as well not exist.

The sound of a phone ringing breaks the silence.

“Are you kidding me, Scott?” Stiles calls. He groans as he stands, and brushes off his jeans before stepping out of the shade. “What did I tell you about cell phones? Oh right, vibrate is so you don’t disturb moviegoers and the natural ord--Oof!” Leaves and twigs crunch and snap under the weight of Stiles’ body as he’s thrown to the ground.

The creature on top of him bares its fangs and snarls, eyes burning red. It presses its claws into his chest.

“Agh, Derek! Claws, Jesus!” Stiles gasps, tearing at the half-human hands gripping him.

“Allison?” Scott says in the distance.

“Forfeit,” Derek growls through his fangs. He presses Stiles into the hard ground.

“I forfeit! Claws! Claws!”

Derek shifts back, pulls his hands from Stiles’ chest to the ground beside his body. His amusement is visible as a huff of breath in the air.

“Sadist,” Stiles grumbles, checking his chest for blood.

“Sorry,” Derek says, a smug look fighting to escape onto his face. “I didn’t want to lose you after Scott gave us away.” He sits back on Stiles’ legs before standing and pulling Stiles with him.

“Sorry!” Scott calls. They can’t see him, only hear him saying sickeningly sweet things to his girlfriend.

“I should’ve known you were with him. Usually I lose him a few miles back.” Stiles inspects his sweater for damage, finding a few new tears and  making them bigger . They turn when Scott finally comes through the trees.

“No, I want to look at them with you,” he says. His footsteps are impressively silent until he trips on a tree root and nearly falls.

“We should go. Make him track us back,” Stiles whispers, leaning toward Derek.

“What?” Scott’s eyes slide to them. There’s a leaf caught in his hair.

“We should,” Derek agrees. He brushes roughly at the dirt on Stiles’ chest and prods him back in the direction Stiles has run from.

“Allison, I have to call you back.” Scott hangs up with a beep.

“Catch us if you can, buddy,” Stiles grins, winking before he starts sprinting away.

“But--”

“Ten minute handicap for the phone,” Derek says, then runs after Stiles, who has already disappeared from view. Scott calls after them, and Stiles’ cackle echoes back at him.

\---

When it looks like Scott has lost them, they stop running. Stiles slows down to a stumble, panting as he catches up to Derek.

“What trail are you following?” Stiles asks, breathless. “Not mine.”

Derek keeps a quick pace so Stiles has to rush after him.

“Yours from last month. You left ash shavings all over the place when you were carving that stupid bat.”

“Excuse me, that stupid bat kept a drifter from killing Erica last week, thank you very much.”

“As I recall, Erica’s teeth in his throat kept him from killing you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Really though, you should piss me off more often.  Deaton said my spells on the bat were my strongest yet. ” Stiles kicks at the ground, spraying dirt on Derek’s heels.

“Stop it and hurry up. I don’t want to make this easy for Scott.” Stiles runs ahead of him and spins around.

“We could raise the stakes here. I could--”

“No.” Derek stops walking. “We’re still two miles out.”

“Don’t think you can track little old me without a working sniffer?” Stiles teases. He’s filled out since they met. A year of playing first line in lacrosse and running with werewolves has left him in better shape and with more scars than most boys his age.

“I don’t think you can find your way back without me.” Derek crosses his arms, leather jacket stretching tight over his shoulders. Stiles steps closer and crosses his own arms mockingly.

“I think the big bad wolf is scared he’ll lose.” Derek growls. Stiles licks his lips and smiles wider.

“Lacrosse has made you cocky.”

“Not cocky, just even more aware of my own awesomeness,” Stiles corrects him. Derek steps forward, crowds him.

“Even if I can’t scent you, I can find you--or anyone--anywhere in these woods. In a heartbeat.” Derek breathes the last word into Stiles’ face. Stiles’ mouth flattens into a stubborn line. “No. Magic,” Derek says.

“Party pooper,” Stiles mutters.

“Pain in my ass,” Derek counters, and shoves Stiles away so he can resume walking. Stiles kicks more dirt at him before following.

\---

A few days later Stiles invites himself over to the newer, nicer, not burnt down, no basement dungeon Hale House for another “training session.” This time, Derek lets him use a spell that confuses werewolf olfactory senses and sends the pack into the woods after him. Stiles is the first to reemerge, panting as he stumbles onto the porch to join Derek.

“I really think you should have to participate too,” he says, sitting down next to Derek on the crooked porch steps.

“Then you wouldn’t get such quality exercise.” Derek takes a swig from the green bottle in his hand, holding it out of reach when Stiles tries to swipe it.

The sun is starting to hang low, pausing before it descends for the day. The air is still just to this side of cold. The porch smells like wood and dust, recently sanded.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” Stiles says.

“I know, Stiles,” Derek replies, taking another drink like he could get drunk off the cheap whiskey.

“Eighteen, a mighty age of freedom and intense societal pressure.”

“Congratulations. We might not all regret letting you live this long.”

Stiles snorts. “Thanks, pack dad. ” He flicks Derek on the shoulder and receives a glare. “You know, Frowny Face--”

“Cheater!” Erica’s voice cuts in before she and Isaac are rolling out of the woods. Derek stands to the sound of growls and claws coming into play, but Stiles beats him to it.

“WOLF PILE!” He jumps off the stairs and throws himself onto the wrestling pair.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts in alarm. Then the trio dissolves into laughter and squirming.

“No! I’m sensitive!” Isaac protests.

“Get him! Under the arms!” Erica cackles.

Derek curses and covers his face with one hand. Scott comes jogging out of the woods, trailing Boyd.

“Did we get him?”

“No,” Derek sighs.

“Wolf pile!” Stiles yells again. Scott responds with a battle cry before launching into the fray. Stiles is knocked off the pile and comes back up spitting dirt.

“Oh, I’m so going to kick your ass,” he threatens. “Come on, Boyd!”

Boyd lifts an eyebrow and moves to walk around the tangle of flailing limbs. Erica’s arm lashes out to pull him down by his ankle.

Derek sighs, sitting back down on his porch with his bottle.

\---

Eventually the wrestling turns to cuddling and disbands. Allison picks Scott up, and Derek’s pups move to the living room for a pre-dinner nap.

Stiles pats Derek on the chest as he walks out the door.

“I expect a good birthday present for breaking that up.”

“Good night, Stiles,” Derek answers flatly.

“Night, Pack Daddy.”

\---

Derek doesn’t have a job. He sleeps late and wakes up the next afternoon to the sound of his phone. He slaps at it blearily, has to try a couple of times before he can read the text message.

“im so fucking fond of you body”

“What?”

“Your heart 2 not just ur body, sorry”

“Are you drunk?”

“Always, mr sour MD ”

“Is Scott with you?”

“DEREK KALE”

“...what?”

“Mwrry me”

Derek sighs, rolling onto his back and flopping his head onto a pillow. His phone beeps.

“U know I mean marry you”

“I know.”

“Ill treat u rite bb”

Derek texts Scott.

“Take his phone away, please.”

“Who?” Scott texts back.

Another message from Stiles interrupts Derek’s reply.

“dont ignore me for another yr”

“I haven’t been ignoring you.”

“look, i might regert this but i hav to say somrthong”

Derek sits up in bed, covers sliding to his waist.

“Stiles! Take his phone before he hurts himself,” he texts Scott frantically. He hesitates before opening the next message he gets.

“I want you. bad.”

Derek groans when he reads it, leans over to put his head in his hands.

“K” Scott texts.

“permanent like ” Stiles adds.

A few minutes pass before Derek gets another message. It’s from Scott.

“Pissed him off, but I got it. nice call. Happy Stiles Day!”

Derek lies back down, tosses his phone out of reach, and stares at the ceiling.

\---

After school the next day Derek sends Isaac, Erica, and Boyd to the movies. For a while he waits on the porch, sitting under a swarm of moths and staring at the darkness. Eventually, he goes inside, sits in the middle of the bright kitchen. The sink drips and the lights buzz. Stiles never knocks, but Derek can hear him coming from a mile away.

He struts in, dragging the smell of cafeteria and binder paper with him.  He heads for the kitchen without straying to seek Derek elsewhere. They look at each other and he moves to get a soda out of the fridge. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“Sent the pack out?” he asks, sitting on the counter farthest from Derek and cracking open the can. Derek nods, drums his fingers on the sink. Stiles slurps his soda.

“How’s being eighteen? Derek asks.

“Ask me when I’m not hungover.”

Derek nods again.

“I’m not going to apologize. For the texts,” Stiles says. Derek stares at him, watches his leg twitch. “Well, except for the spelling and punctuation. Atrocious.”

“What do you want, Stiles?”

“You.” Stiles’ voice breaks when the word catches in his throat. He coughs. “I want you. And I know you want me.” His gaze is too steady. Derek fidgets.

“What if I don’t?” Derek asks. Stiles’ tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t say that to me, because it’s a lie.”

“Why should I?” Stiles flinches. Derek sighs.

Stiles drops his drink on the counter, hops down and walks over to stand in front of Derek. Derek has to look up to catch his eyes.

“I’m good for you,” he tells Derek. “Sometimes too good.”

He reaches out to touch Derek and Derek lets him. His fingers slide over Derek’s cheek. He runs his knuckles across the stubble on Derek's chin. Derek closes his eyes.

Stiles smells like dirt, grass. Laundry detergent. Cooled sweat. Bread crumbs. Fresh scabs.

Stiles’ palm lights on Derek’s shoulder, pushing Derek back as he leans close. His mouth is always open, and he exhales wet heat against Derek’s face before sliding, pressing his lips to Derek’s. Derek breathes deep as their mouths drag. One hand finds Stiles’ waist, fists in his sweatshirt, tugs, and lets go. The other palms his pale throat, feeling the punch of his pulse under the delicate skin and pulling it close. Derek bites at Stiles’ lips, then breaks the kiss.

“I don’t want this,” he breathes, opening his eyes.

“Well it really kinda seems like you do.” Stiles is frowning.

“Well, I don’t,” Derek snaps. He stands and pushes his way out of Stiles’ space.

“God, what is your problem?” Stiles calls after him.

“You’re not my pack, and I’m not your mate. ”

“I never said I was. Presumptuous much?”

“You have a life ahead of you, and I’m not going to be the one who takes it away.” Derek walks out of the kitchen, turns, and punches the doorframe. The wall shudders and something cracks.

“Yeah, take your stupidity out on the shiny new house. Good choice.”

“You should go.” Derek stares at him. Stiles is never scared when he should be.

“Are you so full of self-loathing that you can’t even let someone--”

“Go, Stiles.”

Stiles stares back at him, mouth hanging open.

“God dammit,” he curses, shaking his head. He stomps past, back the way he came in. The front door slams behind him. Derek stays in the doorway, fixed as a block of granite.

\---

The next time the pack gathers, Stiles isn’t there. He isn’t a wolf, doesn’t feel the same pull as the rest of them, but his absence still has an effect.

“Where’s Stiles?” Isaac asks when Scott walks into the house, stamping his feet on the mat to clean them of mud.

Derek pads downstairs as Scott’s taking off his jacket.

“He had to write a paper,” Scott answers.

Derek sits down across from Erica and Boyd. He props his bare feet on the coffee table. Their eyes track him. Scott doesn’t sit.

“Tell Lydia to come next time,” Derek says after they’ve stared at him for a while. “I don’t care if she has an Atlas-worthy load of social engagements, she can spare us one meeting.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Scott agrees. He’ll tell Stiles to talk to her.

“How’s everyone doing?” Derek asks, and the family meeting starts.

\---

They disband when the pups get hungry and start snapping at each other. There’s nothing too serious to address, anyway--a new history teacher they all hate, a fight Erica won against a boy twice her size, that Stiles won’t stop eating things that smell terrible. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd argue their way into making dinner and Derek sees Scott out of the house. They walk to the edge of the woods and Scott stops.

“He smells like rot,” he says, turning to wrinkle his nose at Derek. “What is that? How did you piss him off so much that he’s actually decaying, dude?”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, Stiles.” Scott throws his arms out. “You broke my best friend!”

“It’s for his own good,” Derek answers.

“De. Caying,” Scott repeats.

“He’s not decaying, Scott. He’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, I’m sure he will be,” Scott says. He moves to brush past Derek.

“Scott, wait.”

Scott turns and coldcocks him.

Derek wakes up in the dark with a root in his back. He groans and an owl hoots at him.

“Teenagers,” he mutters.

\---

The next morning he gets a text while he’s dropping Erica, Isaac, and Boyd off at school.

“Don’t kill Scott,” it says.

Boyd is the only one who says goodbye before shutting the car door.

“Fine. Tell him not to challenge me again,” Derek texts back. Stiles doesn’t answer.

\---

Erica is mad at him. She stews for days, snapping at Isaac and Boyd about anything and everything before she finally explodes in Derek’s face.

“I hate you!” she roars. Her claws swipe a lamp off a table and it shatters across the foyer. “You’re a shitty alpha! You only care about yourself and you’re going to die alone after we all leave you!”

Derek roars, fangs out, and she backs into a corner. When she runs out of the house he leaves a line of claw marks in the drywall where she was standing. Isaac and Boyd retreat into the house, and he’s left standing in the doorway.

Stiles brings her back that night. Derek hears the Jeep coming and goes to watch Erica climbing out of the passenger seat. She trudges up the porch steps toward him with her head down. They growl at each other as she walks into the house. Then he stares at Stiles. Stiles stares back. He’s in sweats, hands in his pockets, with his hair sticking straight up off his scalp and sleep in his eyes.

“So you’re an idiot,” Stiles informs him. “Nothing new there. Erica is failing chem. I’m going to come tutor her after school until finals.” He sniffs and rubs his nose. “I heard I smell like death or something. Is that for real?”

“No.”

“Do I smell like something else to you because you’re the alpha?”

“No.” 

“I love it when you go monosyllabic,” Stiles jokes. “So this might be a weird question if you weren’t the alpha of a werewolf pack, but what do you think I smell like?” Stiles takes a few steps toward the porch.

“You stink like licorice from here,” Derek answers, sitting down at the top of the stairs. “The others are just feeling how upset you are and translating it in their own way. Scott should be alpha enough to figure that out on his own.”

“Alright, then how does your nose translate my intense frustration with how self-destructively, stupendously, stubbornly, arrogantly idiotic you are?” Stiles walks close enough to push one shoe against the edge of the bottom step.

“As burning flesh and hair.”

Stiles pauses.

“I’m sorry, that’s heartbreaking, but I’m going to be mad until you admit that you fucked up.” Derek doesn’t reply. “I love you, man, but I’m not here to coddle you.”

“I’m a grown man, Stiles. Trust me for once,” Derek says.

“You’re ridiculous, and I’m going to win.” Derek huffs. “See? Already chipping away,” Stiles says smugly.

“I want what’s best for you,” Derek tells him.

“So do I. So I’ll see you tomorrow.” Stiles kicks off the porch, turns, and gets back into his jeep. Derek watches as he drives away. A few minutes later Isaac comes outside. He sits down next to Derek and presses their shoulders together for warmth.

\---

Things return to normal, for all intents and purposes. Stiles spends most of his time at the Hale House with the pack. The rest he’s training or playing lacrosse, with Isaac and Scott, sometimes at the Hale House. Or else he’s with his dad. Being Stiles. Doing whatever a Stiles does. Derek doesn’t ask.

He leaves pamphlets for colleges on the kitchen table. Asks Stiles to look at them.

“For the others,” he explains when Stiles raises an eyebrow.

It gets colder. Not much, because it’s California, but still cold enough to smell like frigid water and dry earth. Then Erica comes home sick. Really sick.

Allison drags her into the house, yelling for Derek. They collapse in the foyer as Derek leaps down the stairs to join them.

“What happened?” He lifts Erica into his lap. She turns her head and retches, spits blood and vomit onto the floor.

“I don’t know,” Allison answers, “I walked into the bathroom and she was lying on the floor like this. But it can’t be wolfsbane, can it? She’s not changing.” Derek brushes bloodied blonde hair out of Erica’s face.

“Erica?” he asks. She manages to whimper a response. “Call Deaton.”

“Scott’s on his way to the clinic now,” Allison assures him. A car door slams and feet hit the porch.

“Stiles!” Derek calls as he bursts through the door, followed by Isaac and Boyd.

“Oh my god.” Stiles rushes to them, taking Erica’s hand. He checks her pulse.

“Stiles,” she whines.

“I’m right here,  beautiful.  How did this happen?”

“I found her this way at school.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Boyd asks.

“I don’t know,” Derek answers. He cradles her closer. They’re all silent, watching Erica pant and squirm in agony.

“Stiles, do something,” Derek says.

“What?”

“Do something! I know Deaton taught you something about healing werewolves. Just try something.”

Stiles hesitates. “Okay.” He clears his throat. “Right.” He cups Erica’s face in his hands. “Erica? Can you open your eyes? I need you to be looking at me for this to work.” She whines like a beaten dog, her eyes slitting open. “Good, look at me.”

“Stiles,” she pleads.

Derek grips Stiles’ arm. Stiles blinks and the room falls silent. Then there’s nothing but screaming and blinding light, a dark shape wavering in his vision, and the sound of jaws snapping. Stiles blacks out.

\---

When he wakes up there’s sunlight in his eyes, striking into the room through the gaps in a set of crooked white blinds. Someone is holding his hand, taking his pulse. The rest fills in around it, his heart, machines beeping, uneven breathing.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re in the hospital.” His eyes focus as Melissa McCall leans over him. She folds his hand onto his belly and smiles.

“What happened?” he asks, startled when the words barely escape his throat. He reaches up, tugging the IV in his hand painfully, and finds a hard wad of bandages on his neck. His skin is numb and stinging at the same time.

“You were bitten, but you’re going to be fine.”

“Bitten?”

“It’s fine, Stiles, I promise,” she assures him softly. He relaxes into the bed. It has to be the drugs making him so weak.

“My dad--”

“Rest. I’ll call and tell him you’re awake.” She touches his hair lightly before moving away from the bed. Stiles reaches after her.

“Scott--”

“Don’t even try to get out of that bed, Stiles,” she warns. “I’ll tell him too.”

“And--”

“Settle down, kid. I’ve got this.” He sighs, and lets her go.

As soon as she’s gone, Derek is in the doorway. Stiles turns to him.

“Hey,” he mouths. His throat refuses to make more words at this time.

Derek comes up to the bed,  all shades of gray  and stubble and leather jacket shifting as he walks, and rests his hands on Stiles’ head and chest as if he's been asked.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says after a moment. Stiles is focusing on the shape of his fingers, the warmth of his palms. “I asked you to help even though I didn’t know what was wrong. I never expected her to bite you.”

“You’re leeching me,” Stiles realizes out loud. He raises a hand, brushes his fingers weakly against Derek’s arm. Derek says nothing. “Thanks.”

“You shouldn’t need this. After Gerard--” Stiles pats his arm to get him to shut up.

“Not dead, dying at a regular rate,” he wheezes.

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says fondly. Stiles just shrugs because his throat hurts. He pokes Derek in the chest.

“Erica?” her name barely makes it out.

“She’s fine. Whatever you did worked. I sent her home an hour ago.” Derek shifts so he can sit on the bed next to Stiles’ hip, causing the whole thing to dip jarringly.

The warmth of Derek’s hands move down Stiles’ face and to his shoulder. So of course Scott chooses to walk in and ruin it.

“Stiles!” he shouts, throwing himself onto the aching upper half of Stiles’ body. Derek quickly retreats, Stiles’ fingers trying and failing to catch one of his hands as it slips away.

“You’re going to suffocate him,” Derek warns.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dude. Are you okay? Does it hurt? I can adjust the drip if you’re in pain.”

“Fine, dude. Good to go,” Stiles croaks out. He pats Scott’s shoulder reassuringly.

“My mom said there wouldn’t be any permanent damage, just some scarring and your vocal chords are kinda bruised so it’ll be hard for you to talk for a while.” The feeling of horror that floods him must be apparent on his face because Scott laughs and Derek huffs.

“No talking?” he hisses.

“Remind me to thank Erica,” Derek says. Scott whips around to shoot him a glare.

“Joking, Scott,” Stiles wheezes.

“It’s not funny, Stiles, you could have died. She almost ripped your throat out.”

Stiles tries to remind him of a full moon when Scott had nearly done the same thing with a lot more intention behind it, but all he gets is a throbbing lump in his throat and a heavy breath stuck in his lungs.

“Talk about it later,” Derek growls, pulling Scott from the bed by his elbow. Scott opens his mouth to argue, but an eyebrow raise from Derek cuts him off.

“Your dad is on his way over,” Scott says instead, reaching out to squeeze Stiles’ forearm.

Stiles gives him a thumbs up.

They hang around and talk at Stiles for a while before the sheriff shows up, but as soon as he’s rushing through the door, Derek pulls Scott out of the room and they disappear.

It turns out Stiles can go home a few hours later, after a thorough check by the doctor. His wounds aren’t infected and he’s got the kind of stitches that dissolve on their own. He gets a school note, a round of antibiotics, and instructions to rest. No more traipsing through the woods and tempting small bears, or whatever Stiles’ dad said attacked him.

The sheriff takes Stiles home in his cruiser, silent the whole way except for the crackle of the police scanner. On the one hand, it’s great because Stiles doesn’t have to reply to anything; but on the other hand, it’s awful because Stiles can’t fill the dead silence. He props his aching bag of bones up against the passenger door and tries to mentally nickname all the trees that fly by his window. By the time they finally get to the house, the press of unspoken words against Stiles’ skull has become so severe that he has an actual headache. He trudges inside and immediately installs himself on the couch.

“I have to go back into the station.” Stiles lifts his head to look at his father where he’s standing stiffly at the end of the couch, hands on his belt. “Text me if you need anything, and I’ll be right over.” There’s an unspoken “wolfy” conversation bouncing around behind the sheriff’s eyes, but it’s not as though Stiles can really participate in it right now. Stiles gives him a thumbs up. The sheriff almost smiles. “I love you, Stiles.” Stiles kicks him in the knee.

“You too, Dad,” he mostly manages to croak. The sheriff pats him on the leg and leaves. Stiles turns his head into the cushions when the door slams, and tries to force his headache out with sleep.

\---

How  does Derek even get into his house? Stiles doesn’t even have to be completely awake to think it, or to know it’s Derek who’s digging blunt fingers into his back to lift him off the couch.

“Emasculating,” Stiles mouths, wrapping tired arms around Derek’s neck. Derek must speak breath because he huffs against Stiles’ scalp. Stiles rests his forehead against Derek’s shoulder and lets himself be carried upstairs to his bedroom. “Not even a ceremony,” Stiles rasps as they cross the threshold.

“We’re not married, Stiles,” Derek replies, long suffering. He lays Stiles out on the bed, peeling his arms from around his neck. Stiles still tries to hold onto his shirt, pulling the fabric enough for it to stretch taught. Derek leans down to placate him and save his shirt from becoming anything but skin tight. Stiles stares at him and wills words to spontaneously bounce out of his eyes into Derek’s in some weird new form of communication. It would be ironic if he made this work and they named a totally silent form of speech after Stiles.

“You’re creeping me out,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Werewolf gods, why couldn’t you make him telepathic?

“Take me,” he croaks out.

“Are you still high?”

Stiles motions down the length of Derek’s body where it’s hovering parallel to his own.

“I just came to check on you.”

Stiles motions again. Derek rolls his eyes and unfurls Stiles’ hand from his shirt. Stiles surprises him by hooking his legs around Derek’s hips and rolling him onto the bed. He sits up triumphantly over Derek’s supine body, lungs heaving with the exertion. His palm presses to his throat, where his breath is dragging through his windpipe. His neck feels like one deep, hot bruise, and he wonders if something in there is still bleeding.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Derek comments, making no move to get up.

“Would you mind?”  The words burn their way out of Stiles’ chest. Derek sits up and drags Stiles close by the knees in an instant.

“Yeah, you asshat, I would mind.”

“Prove it,” Stiles mouths at him in the dark. Derek’s anger wavers.

“I don’t want you to get invested in me,” he says, hands gently sliding to Stiles’ waist.

“Mixed signals,” Stiles rasps.

“Stay with me and you’ll end up dying a lot faster than you will at the regular rate.”

Stiles sighs in frustration. Not being able to bitch Derek out properly is the worst. Derek reaches up to Stiles’ neck, fingers catching on the collar of his shirt before touching Stiles’ bandages. His wound aches in irritation at the minor disturbance.

“This is what you get from being around me.”

“And,” Stiles whispers, leaning in to catch Derek’s mouth half open. He only gets one kiss in before Derek pulls away.

“Stop that,” Derek snaps. Stiles points at his neck. “Have you heard a word that I said?” Stiles crosses his arms. “Stiles, I’m not going to take your virginity as an apology. That is the complete opposite of what I’ve been telling you.” Stiles tries to shove him but Derek just swats his hand away.

“I forgive you,” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek replies, flipping Stiles off of his lap and onto the bed.

“Ow. Jerk.”

Derek stands and shakes himself out.

“You are going to graduate high school alive. And when that’s over you’re going to go off to college where you won’t almost die every weekend. You’ll have normal friends who won’t try to rip your throat out with their teeth, and lovers who won’t want to eat you as much as they want to fuck you.”

Stiles makes a graceless leap to snatch Derek’s wrist before he can walk off like a werewolfy prince of melodrama.

“Love not even a factor here?” he rattles out. Derek pushes him back onto the bed and pulls his hand out of Stiles’ grip.

“It’s the only factor here, idiot.”  Stiles makes a hurt noise and chokes on it. “Shut up.”

Stiles responds with a disgruntled wheezing  sound .

“You need to stop thinking about this. We still don’t know what happened to Erica and you’re out of commission.” Derek moves for the window and Stiles wonders if that’s how he’d gotten in to begin with. He sits up as Derek slides the window open.

“I love you!” he rasps.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Derek answers as he crawls out the window and closes it after  himself .

\---

The next morning Stiles gets up and makes coffee. A few minutes after he sits down with his first cup and turns on the news, his dad wanders in. The sheriff looks confused for a second, hair mussed and eyes unfocused, before he remembers that Stiles has a reason to be there.

“Morning, Pop,” Stiles calls hoarsely. The sheriff grunts back at him and wanders into the kitchen. Stiles hears the coffee pot clattering around in its cradle as the weather report starts to get boring.

“You take your antibiotics?” his dad calls after a moment.

“Yeah,” Stiles warbles. The sheriff ambles into the living room sporting a mug that proclaims, “We did it! Calm Camp ‘96”. He sits down on the couch next to Stiles and takes the remote so he can change the channel to cartoons.

“Watching that,” Stiles protests.

“Newsflash, its cold out,” his dad grumbles.

“Catch that bear cub that attacked me yet?” Half Stiles’ words are nearly silent by their own volition.

“I heard it was an accidental mauling. The creature was confused.” Stiles hmphs in satisfaction. “Derek told me Isaac would bring your Jeep by after school.”

“When?”

“Around 3:15 I guess.”

“No. Derek, when?” It’s a good thing his dad can understand abridged Stiles.

“When he came by the station last night. Which is why we’re not having another conversation about you hanging around bloodthirsty supernatural creatures right now.” Stiles doesn’t make any response. His father turns to point a warning finger at him. “Having the Jeep does not mean you get to go out and endanger yourself further. You’re on bedrest lockdown.”

Stiles groans.

“Hey, I remember the last time you were hospitalized by werewolf mumbo jumbo.” Stiles wants to outlaw the use of the term “mumbo jumbo” by anyone ever. “No sneaking out, and we are going to talk about this when you can explain yourself.”

“I’m eighteen,” Stiles reminds him hoarsely.

“Yeah, aren’t we all amazed,” his dad replies flatly before standing so he can walk off dramatically or just so he can get dressed.

Stiles  sticks his tongue out  at the sheriff’s back and turns the channel onto news  again.

\---

It’s actually 3: _16_ when Stiles hears the sweet sound of his jeep grumbling into the driveway. He waits for the shudder and squeak-thump of the engine being cut and the door shutting before he tears his eyes away from a particularly vexing episode of Finding Bigfoot and gets up to open the front door.

Isaac is already standing there, looking as tall and Burton-esque as always. His arm rises and his hand opens to let Stiles’ keys jingle and hang from his fingers.

“Good to see you too, buddy,” Stiles rasps, reaching up to take the keys. Isaac pulls them away.

“No joyriding,” he says firmly.

“Right, whatever.” Stiles takes Isaac by the elbow and pulls him inside, keys and all. He shuts the door to keep the heat in. Isaac loses the keys to him while looking around. “Never been here,” Stiles realizes out loud. He might have forgotten about normal friendship etiquette somewhere around becoming friends with werewolves.

Isaac shakes his head and wanders further inside.

“Have to go home soon?” Stiles asks hoarsely, finding his coat by the door so he can tuck his keys safely in the pocket. This way he doesn’t have to search for them when he’s sprinting out to cover a crisis, and he has to have his jacket in order to leave.

“No.” Isaac is inspecting everything in a weirdly slow and stiff way, like he’s waiting for something to jump out at him. Stiles decides to go back to the couch while Isaac moseys into the kitchen. He thinks about trying to call after him, but just ends up clearing his throat. When Isaac finally makes it back to the living room, he’s carrying a glass of water. He hands it to Stiles before sitting down on the couch next to him.

“Your dad seems nice,” Isaac says. Stiles nods and shrugs.

“How’s Derek?” He asks. Isaac lifts an eyebrow. It makes him look particularly creepy. “Living with him,” Stiles explains. He could put his foot in his mouth with full on laryngitis. Isaac relaxes.

“He’s good to us,” he answers. Stiles nudges him, and Isaac almost smiles. “He understands us. Expects a lot from us. You’ve seen what he’s like.” Isaac fidgets. Stiles shrugs again. “He doesn’t like being called ‘Dad’ though. You should probably stop.”

“Never!” Stiles wheezes, and Isaac really does smile a little. “Having meatloaf for dinner,” he adds.

“I don’t think--”

It’s Stiles’ turn to raise a creepy eyebrow. He hands Isaac the remote decisively, attaching him to the spiritual foundation of the home.

\---

Stiles’ dad comes home on time for once, probably just to make sure Stiles didn’t drive to his doom as soon as the jeep came back.

Isaac had fallen asleep during a commercial while they watched Ferris Bueller's Day Off. He'd been outed as a secret cuddler a long time ago, so when he rolled in his sleep and landed with his head on Stiles' leg, Stiles just patted his hair and draped his arm over Isaac's shoulder. That's the first thing the sheriff sees when he cracks open the door.

Stiles waves and keeps bobbing his head to "Danke Schoen." The sheriff shrugs and finally steps inside, dropping his keys on the table by the door. His coat goes on the rack next to Stiles' and he moves toward the stairs to take his gun off in his room.

"What's for dinner?" he asks quietly as he goes by.

"Vegetable pie," Stiles whispers back. The sheriff grimaces involuntarily before realizing that Stiles is lying. He shakes his finger at his son then waves him off as he walks away.

"It's really meatloaf, right?" Isaac asks as soon as he disappears up the stairs.

"Mmhmm," Stiles hums in amusement, plopping his hand onto the side of Isaac's face.

"Erica feels pretty bad about what she did," Isaac says quietly after a moment.

"'m fine," Stiles answers, patting Isaac's curly head. Someone should make hair puppies with this guy.

"If Derek hadn't thrown her off I think she would've mauled you."

"Oh."

"She won't leave the house."

"Oh..."

"Deaton said it looked like a witch thing."

"Are you supposed to tell me this?" Stiles asks. Isaac shrugs and sits up.

"You'd figure it out anyway, right?" Of course, if he hadn't just been hospitalized and drugged up, Stiles would be in full research mode already. He was sure his dad had already talked to Chris Argent about it, since they had a  tough guy widower bromance  going on.

Isaac stands and walks toward the kitchen. "Can I set the table?"

"Yeah, man." Stiles gets up to follow him, because if Isaac is going to set the table, Stiles should probably make the dinner. The doorbell rings just as their feet reach the linoleum.

"Stiles!" his dad calls.

"We'll get it, Mr. Stilinski," Isaac calls back. Stiles looks back at him as he jogs for the door. "It's Lydia," he says.

Lydia rushes past Stiles as soon as he gets the door open. She’s excessively bundled up against the cold, carrying an armload of books and papers.

“I’m only doing this because I didn’t visit you in the hospital,” she says.

“What...?” Stiles follows her through the kitchen and to the dining table, where she drops everything right on top of a plate Isaac has just laid down.

“And because Scott--” somehow she turns his name into a scoff, “can’t understand what you need for your AP classes.”

“What--Lydia?” Stiles croaks. She’s brought him two notebooks, a purple binder, a rubber banded set of notecards, and at least three nondescript library books. She spins back to face him, putting her hands on her hips and scowling. A curl of red hair running down the middle of her face keeps her from being too intimidating.

“It’s almost the end of the semester, Stiles. I vouched for you in history and now that complete asshole wants us both to write additional research papers.” She steps forward to poke him in the chest with a cashmere-gloved finger. “Don’t make me look bad.”

“... Okay?”

“Don’t write about an obscure kind of werewolf, do you understand me?”

He nods slowly.

“Don’t write about  any  obscure mythical beasts.”

“But it’s all I know, Lydia,” he whines dramatically.

She surprises him by throwing her arms around him. He just manages to catch her. Her nose is cold against his collar.

“Don’t die before we get to Stanford,” she says, and he can feel her pouting. He pats her back.

“Staying for dinner, Lydia?” the sheriff asks, appearing in the doorway.

“What are you having?” she asks with her face still in Stiles’ shoulder.

“Meatloaf,” Isaac answers.

“Yes. Sounds terrible.” She detaches herself from Stiles and walks away to hang up her coat like she never even touched him.

\---

The pack continues to meet up even though Stiles is out sick. It’s been  a while  since they hunted anything. It’s been awhile since anything hunted them.

But the trail is cold. Erica doesn’t remember anything but feeling a sudden pain between classes and nearly dying in the bathroom, and Deaton has never been exactly forthcoming when anyone asked him about other witches. No one has been able to intimidate him into clarity as of yet, and Stiles and Lydia are the only two he’s ever talked magic shop with.

"What do we have so far?" Scott asks as soon as they're all settled in Derek's living room.

"Isaac?" Derek prompts from his spot in the middle of the well-worn couch, arms spread out behind Erica and Boyd. Isaac is perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, Scott and Allison sharing the love seat across from him.

"Scott and I have been at the vet's most of this week, but he won't tell us anything," Isaac answers quietly.

"I don't think he knows much, but we can't get him to answer our questions to see if he's lying," Scott adds. "He won't help us find the witch."

"He hasn't been much help since the Argents stopped hunting us," Boyd says in a low voice.

"You're lucky he helped you with that much," Allison replies smoothly. Scott grips her thigh.

Derek's bare feet push absently at the threadbare rug.

“Lydia?” Derek calls to her where she’s standing in the doorway.

"I'm only here because that irritating little twerp pressured me into it." Her heels click loudly against the wood floors as she walks over to squeeze in with Scott and Allison.

"Has he found anything out?" Derek asks.

"Leave him alone," Lydia snaps, tossing her hair. "He's still recovering from almost getting his throat ripped out." Erica shrinks into the couch, and Derek’s arm comes down to rest across her shoulders.

“What are you going to tell him?”

“Certainly not that you’re a bunch of idiots who can’t solve your supernatural mysteries without the superhuman Stiles Stilinski,” Lydia answers.

“Good. Tell him we have a plan, but you didn’t hear all the details.” Derek pauses to look around at the group. “Don’t give him a reason to choose risk over rest. We need to figure this out before Stiles runs headlong into danger, for once.”

“He’s supposed to be recovered enough to go back to school next week,” Scott says. “After that, not even a pack of Kanimas and a sudden shortage of ADHD medication is going to be able to stop him.”

\---

A week and a half goes by. They don’t leave a stone unturned, and they don’t figure it out. Scott steals Stiles’ Adderall and gives it back two days later when he becomes even more risk-prone.

The last bell rings one day at school, and Stiles drags Scott into the locker room.

“Deaton,” he says as soon as they’re alone. It’s a lot easier for him to talk now, but the single meaningful word thing has become habitual already.

“What?” Scott asks, completely confused.

Stiles sighs. “You are so pretty, but you are so dumb,” he says, clapping Scott on the shoulder. “I want to talk to Deaton, but my dad won’t let me go anywhere, especially not to see the town witch vet. You have to help me.”

“Stiles--”

“You guys suck without me, and I want to know who’s behind this before we’re all old or dead. If I tell my dad you need a ride somewhere after school, like, I don’t know, Barnes & Noble? Do you read? Anyway, we go to see Deaton. He’ll talk to me. We’ll have a lead. You and the Muscles McHale Family Band can sniff it down. I’ll go home and watch M*A*S*H. Stiles safe, mystery solved. Yes?”

“I don’t trust this,” Scott answers flatly.

“Don’t let this cruel world break your pure and trusting spirit, Scott. Let’s go.” It’s possible that having to stay cooped up, quiet, and safe for so long has left a permanent psychological mark on Stiles.

\---

“I want to know what happened to me.”

Stiles is sitting on a stool in an exam room at the vet’s. Deaton has his arms crossed by the back wall, and Scott is hovering outside in the waiting area, where he’s been banished.

“I told you that what I taught you could be dangerous. What happened was your own fault,” Deaton replies gently.

“What about what happened to Erica? Was that her fault?”

Deaton pauses. “No. That was most certainly not,” he answers.

“Then tell me whose fault it was,” Stiles says.

“I can’t.”

“Because you don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have an idea, Deaton. You’re all full of ideas all the time. Like some kind of wily idea man with a broken idea sharer,” Stiles rambles.

Deaton smiles briefly. “I can’t tell you because it will only endanger all of us further. I can try to find the ones responsible myself, but they will only be more dangerous if they know you know about them.”

“They, huh?” Stiles raises an eyebrow.

Deaton sighs.

“Deaton, I’m going to keep poking my nose around and doing dumb things even if you don’t help me. I mean, have you met me?”

Deaton unfolds his arms and walks over to shut the door. Maybe it’s soundproof to werewolves or something. He turns back to Stiles.

“You need to learn to protect yourself.”

“As I’ve been telling you for the past two years,” Stiles agrees.

“The protection you need now is from yourself. Stiles, when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

“Excuse me?” Stiles blinks.

“You know that what you used on Erica would have hurt you even if she hadn’t been cursed. You’ll pay for your loyalty to Derek’s pack in blood.”

“Where is this coming from all of a sudden?” Stiles’s voice rises. “You’re the one who told me I could do things that they couldn’t do, to help them! If you were so concerned, you shouldn’t have taught me.”

“I am loyal to the Hale family, and you... you’re special, Stiles.” Deaton moves to stand in front of Stiles. “You have a gift.”

“We’re both loyal to the Hale family, and we’re both pretty damn gifted. So why am I in so much trouble here?” Stiles rubs his legs anxiously.

“You’re too close, Stiles.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles protests.

“It’s not bullshit,” Deaton says firmly. They frown at each other in silence for a moment.

“You’re trying to tell me something right now, aren’t you?” Stiles asks. Deaton doesn’t answer, but he stops frowning. “Oooohhhh...” Stiles grabs Deaton’s hand. “Are you going to get in trouble for telling me this?”

“If you drop this now, we’ll both live a lot longer and a lot better. You should go home and do as your father says.”

“Since we both know that’s not going to happen, I say you teach me some more stuff that might help my pack, and then we seriously medicate for fleas and hope to god everything works out,” Stiles replies.

\---

That night Stiles is still wide awake when Derek crawls in through his window. It slides quietly in its frame, and Stiles sits up, turns on his dim bedside lamp. Derek immediately shields his eyes from the sudden light.

“Hey Dracula,” Stiles greets. It’s been a couple of weeks since they’ve been in the same room. This room, actually.

“Does that make you Igor?” Derek whispers.

“I would be the beautiful Mina Harker. Please take me away from my husband Keanu and his terrifying attempt at a British accent.”

“Good to hear you can flap your gums again.” Derek pulls up Stiles’ desk chair so he can sit next to the bed. Stiles scoots closer to him.

“I think something bad is going to happen to Deaton.”

“Stiles, I wish you would stay out of this,” Derek whispers.

“Why are you whispering? My dad’s not home.” He scratches his head, yawns, and rubs the corner of his eye. Derek pauses, listening to the house.

“I could’ve sworn...” His eyes focus back on Stiles. “We can take care of this.”

Stiles snorts. “Do I look like an idiot? Don’t answer that. Listen to me, someone should be with Deaton, all the time.”

“Scott and Isaac have been visiting him every day.”

“I know, but it’s not enough. Something bad is going to happen to him, I know it. He won’t like it, but we need to help him.”

“Is this about what you two talked about today?” Derek asks.

“No. Yes. Partially.” Stiles smooths out the twisted shoulder of his well worn Beacon Hills Lacrosse t-shirt. Derek sniffs.

“Are you sleeping with that damn bat?” He asks suddenly.

“Well it’s not like you’re going to wise up and get cozy with us in here any time soon,” Stiles snaps back, then flinches at his own words.

“If you’re scared, I can tell Isaac--”

“Please, thank you, no. I’m fine.” Stiles waves his hands to signal for the end of Derek’s train of thought. “Seriously, strapping young man right here. Send Isaac to sleep under Deaton’s window instead. You’re stalking me well enough for the entire pack. I feel very safe.”

Derek shifts in his seat. “... Good. Tell me what you talked about with Deaton.” Derek leans forward and puts on his serious eyebrows.

“We didn’t talk so much as he said mean things and I inferred greater meanings from them with my massive intelligence.” Derek stares at Stiles. “Really though, he was harder to crack than you during a full moon when you can’t find a bunny to slaughter.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. What else?”

Stiles scratches his jaw. “Well... There was a lot of vague stuff about me being special and that not being a good combination with werewolves.”

“What happened to Erica?” Derek frowns. Describing it as Erica puking up blood and then jugular-biting or nearly killing Stiles might be a little too much a little too soon.

Stiles shrugs. “Some kind of witchy, cursey thing? I learned a guard for it, so nobody’s going to be nipping at this beauty again.” Stiles tips his head up and runs his hand over the impressive array of scabs, bruises, and newly healed skin on his neck, some spots mottled in red and white where the scars will fade out in a few years.

Derek’s fingers twitch against his knee.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, whipping his hand away from his neck.

“What are you apologizing for?” Derek sighs.

“Probably for being momentarily insensitive to your man pain.”

“I’m not--there is no ‘man pain’ okay?” Derek objects.

“There’s a whole lot of man pain, princess. You practically reek of it. Worse than Scott during an Allison hiatus.”

“We’ll keep an eye on Deaton,” Derek says shortly, moving to stand. Stiles’ hand lands on his knee. “Stiles--”

“Alright! I’m a little scared, so I’m sleeping with the bat. What do you want from me, a treatise on my physical fragility?” Stiles’ eyes shift away from Derek’s gaze.

“Why don’t you have Scott stay with you for a while?” Derek takes Stiles’ wrist as he stands, and Stiles pulls it out of his grip. He awkwardly rests his hand back against the mattress, like he’s not sure where to put it.

“Scott comes by to check on me more often than you do. I’m just saying. I’m not  totally  unaware of the constant risk to life and limb I’m subjecting myself to by continuing to be best friends with teen werewolf Scott McCall. Or by relentlessly pursuing an intimate relationship with Derek Hale: frowning, extremely sexually appetizing danger incarnate.”

Derek sighs and steps close to the bed. He pulls Stiles against his side, running a hand through his hair. Stiles rests his face against Derek’s hip and his hand against the inside of Derek’s knee. He’s unusually still.

“You’re so damn annoying,” Derek says quietly, rubbing his fingertips across Stiles’ scalp.

“You’re equally infuriating,” Stiles grumbles.

“If you’re going to be so willing to die for Scott or me, you should think about how we might deal with that. Especially Scott.”

“I never said anything about dying,” Stiles scoffs. “I fully expect you and Scott jump in front of all the wiggy magic bullets for me. After all I’ve done for you... Dying! As if.”

Derek’s fingers trail down the side of Stiles’ neck.

“At least tell me that I’m not just delusional and you’re not just terrible at letting me down easy because I’m not ladylike enough,” Stiles says, his voice sounding aimless.

“Of course you’re not delusional,” Derek answers. Stiles’ hand tightens on his leg.

“I have to go to Stanford, or Lydia will murder me. But the idea that I might find someone else there willing to chase me half way across an old growth forest or rip the head off Allison’s militant half-Kanima grandpa to get him to stop... well, it's pretty laughable.”

“Your dad just pulled into the driveway,” Derek replies.

Stiles looks up at him. “If you didn’t want a stupid teenager like me to fall in love with you, you shouldn’t have been all hot and paralyzed and  wet  and  helpless  in a pool--” Derek huffs,  “--and all present and shirtless and misunderstood after the coolest girl at school rejected me and my best friend became overly obsessed with a girl whose family wanted to kill everyone.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek pushes Stiles back onto the bed, dragging Stiles’ awkward hand across the mattress, and settles his weight over Stiles’ body. He kisses him into silence, softly, and then rougher when Stiles’ other hand curls around the nape of his neck. A car door slams outside, and Stiles makes a small involuntary noise when Derek shifts over him. Derek bites Stiles’ lip, presses an open mouthed kiss to his jaw, and pulls away.

“Hey,” Stiles protests as Derek pushes himself off Stiles and stands from the bed. He heads for the window, switching Stiles’ bedside lamp off as he goes. “Damn it, Derek!”

“You’re definitely ladylike enough,” Derek says, voice low, as he slides the window open. Stiles makes an indignant noise as he crawls out and closes it behind himself just as the sheriff gingerly shuts the front door downstairs.

\---

Stiles is at home, safe on the couch with his feet on his dad, yelling at a basketball game.

Derek and Boyd break a window to get into the dark vet’s office. Isaac’s snarls are swallowed under the sounds of dogs barking in their kennels, cats yowling and hissing, birds chirping and flapping their wings against their cages. Chairs crash out of place in the lobby. Isaac slides across the floor and hits the receptionist desk. Boyd rushes over to crouch beside him as Derek bares his fangs and claws to the only shadow moving toward the door.

“Show yourself!” Derek roars. When the figure keeps moving for the door, he leaps after it.

“Nekrá mátia tou skýlou.” The voice seems to descend from the ceiling, falling on Derek, Isaac, and Boyd at the same time. They yell and howl, and hit the ground to shield their eyes from an invisible piercing light. Derek is back up, though blind, in an instant, but their assailant is gone.

“Scott!” Derek calls out through the dark, over the shrieking animals.

“Derek, Deaton needs help!”

\---

Allison is the one who takes everyone to the hospital. Scott is a little banged up, recovering from some weird burns and a fractured bone in his arm, but at least he can see. Derek, Boyd, and Isaac sit in the emergency room with their eyes covered in bandages. Isaac is seen first because of the burns across his face and hand, and he lies on his side on the gurney they assign him as if he’s afraid to move.

Stiles and Erica rush in trailing the sheriff after their friends have been there for less than an hour. Stiles is in sweats, pale and looking ill under the fluorescent lights. His father has a rushed appearance, wearing an old pair of jeans and dirty sneakers. His plaid shirt is misbuttoned near the top. Erica looks tired, eyebrows drawn in distress and bundled in a gray sweater she must’ve borrowed from one of the boys.

“Derek.” She  hurries  to him, and he reaches out to take her hands with reassuring ease.

“We’re fine,” he says. “Go sit with Isaac.” She gives him a quick embrace he can’t shake off before moving to Boyd. They hug and she leads him to Isaac’s bed, where they both sit down and take his hands.

“Derek, my god, are you alright?” The sheriff lopes after his son, who makes a beeline for Derek.

“Your eyes, what happened?” Stiles takes Derek’s face in his hands, and Derek lifts his head to Stiles’ voice.

“You know, witchy cursey stuff,” Derek replies flatly. Stiles begins pulling off the bandage without any sort of permission. None of the staff seems to notice or care.

The sheriff hesitates nearby, looking between the two of them.

“Where’s Deaton?” Stiles asks, looking intently at Derek’s swollen eyes, half cracked open, watering, irises covered with a milky film.

“I think he’s in intensive care. He was in a pretty rough state,” Derek answers.

“How did this happen?” Stiles asks, running a gentle finger under Derek’s eye.

“I don’t know. There was a voice,” Derek speaks quietly. “It spoke another language. Something like, ‘Neck Matt to sky Lou?’ I don’t know.”

“Sorry, I don’t speak misheard witchcraft.”

“A witch did this?” Stiles’ dad takes a seat next to Derek.

“Probably. Shitty sense of timing. State was winning,” Stiles says.

“In your dreams,” his dad mutters.

“Alright, trust me and stay still,” Stiles says softly, leaning closer to Derek and covering his eyes with his palms. Derek grabs his elbows.

“Absolutely not,” he growls.

“Don’t be a cub,” Stiles clucks.

“I would rather be blind,” Derek hisses.

“What’s going on?” the sheriff asks.

“Well that’s not what I want, you stubborn asshole,” Stiles says sharply.

“You’re the blackest fucking pot in the world,” Derek’s voice rises.

“What in hell is going on?” the sheriff asks again, louder.

“Alright, Dad, don’t freak out. I’m going to heal Derek’s eyes.”

“What?” his dad asks.

“The hell you are,” Derek objects.

Stiles sighs. “Okay, Dad, I’m really sorry, I know we should’ve talked about this, but...”

Stiles covers Derek’s eyes with one hand, using his other to lift Derek’s face. "Stiles--" Derek protests. Stiles leans in and kisses Derek firmly, slotting their mouths together until Derek begins to kiss him back. Derek’s hands travel up Stiles’ arms, pulling him down.

Stiles jerks back suddenly. “Ouch, damn it.”

“Stiles, what is going on?” the sheriff asks like he’s on the verge of shooting someone.

“I’m really, really sorry, Dad. But just hang out there for like two seconds.” Stiles takes his hand off Derek’s eyes. “Hey, let’s see those gorgeous green eyes,” he says softly, running his thumb down Derek’s cheek. Derek’s eyes are still swollen and watering, but when he slowly opens them, they’re clear green again. It takes him a second to focus on Stiles.

“How did you do that?” Derek and the sheriff ask in unison.

“Just a little of that old white magic, you know,” Stiles answers. Then his knees go out from under him and he drops into Derek’s lap.

"Whoa, you're okay." Derek pulls Stiles to him, then locks gazes with the sheriff and stands to hoist him into another seat. He wipes his eyes and sits back down.

Stiles leans over, groaning, and puts his head in his hands.

"Stiles, are you okay?" his dad asks.

"Mmhmm," Stiles murmurs back unconvincingly. He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly.

"What just happened?" the sheriff asks stiffly.

Stiles squints up at him, eyes darting to Derek. "It's sorta..."

"The vet has been teaching him things. About werewolves, and magic," Derek says for him. "I'm sorry,  Gray , I thought you should hear it from Stiles." Stiles' face goes slack when Derek calls his father by his first name.

"Keep kissing my teenage son like that and you go back to calling me Sheriff Stilinski," the sheriff warns. "Stiles, why didn't you tell me about this? Why didn't you tell me about  that ?" He jabs a thumb at Derek.

"Where do you want me to start, my teenage hormones or your three types of heart medication?" 

"We said no more lying when I found out about Scott," the sheriff says. "Why would you keep this from me?"

"I don't know!" Stiles tosses his hands. "I didn't want you to tell me to stop doing it," he says. "I didn't want you to get scared. I didn't want to have to fight you about Derek. I didn't want to start sneaking out again or make you feel like I was out of control." Stiles sighs, sitting back in his seat and raising a hand to his head with a grimace. "This is what I didn't want. I'm sorry, I should've just told you."

"I cannot even begin to express how angry I am." He turns to Derek. "We had a deal. I don't shoot you and you don't endanger my son."

"With all due respect, have you met your son? I kind of have my hands full here," Derek motions at Stiles.

"Wording," Stiles murmurs.

"He's eighteen, Derek, and he's an idiot."

"Hey! I  resemble  that," Stiles pipes up.

"Shut up," Derek and the sheriff say in unison.

"Listen, we've talked about this. He's going to college in the fall. We both want him out and safe. My god, I bought you a  beer  over it." The sheriff turns to Stiles, looks him up and down and makes a frustrated noise. "I shouldn't have let you play lacrosse. You used to be so weedy and pale."

"Hey!"

The sheriff turns back to Derek. "I'm telling you, don't encourage him."

"Hey!" Stiles shouts, earning them a few turned heads. "God dammit, I feel like my skull is  splitting open ," he groans. "I'm eighteen. You don't get to tell me who to kiss or who to love. And don't try to dictate to him either or I will shoot a hole in our roof with your gun and fill the entire fridge with leafy greens."

The sheriff and Derek look at Stiles, and then Derek turns to the sheriff.

“Just so we’re on the same page here, he’s the one who’s been trying to seduce me.”

“Oh please, Derek. How often do you put a shirt on when someone tells you to?” The sheriff scoffs. “This kid’s been asking boys if they thought he was pretty since he was six years old. If you didn’t see the signs, you’re blinder than any magic mumbo jumbo could fix.”

“Six, really?” Stiles looks thoughtful, then accepting, then pleased.

“I have no intentions of encouraging him,” Derek says.

“Is that so?” Stiles says, opening his mouth for further argument. He stops when Derek glares at him, jaw clenching.

“Stiles, we have about a hundred conversations to catch up on,” his father says  warningly . “But first I’d like it if we could take out whatever son of a bitch is causing all this trouble. So you tell the both of us what you and Scott found out while you were snooping--as I repeatedly told you not to.”

\---

Stiles gives them the gist of what he’d been trying to avoid telling either of them.

“There are witches after us and I think it’s my fault.”

“How?”

“I’m too close to the pack. Scott was one thing, he’s just one wolf. Derek is different.”

Awkward pauses all around.

“They don’t like it if you’re too close. Not if you’re doing magic. Deaton was helping us too much. I made him get too close. God, it’s my fault this happened to him. I told you to protect him.”

Deaton is crippled. It’s not something the doctors can explain, but he’ll never walk without help again, and even then it will be almost unbearably painful for him. Aside from the wheelchair, he looks practically unscathed. A little tired. Scott stays by his side most of the time he’s in the hospital. When he talks to Stiles alone he says, “We have a code, to not get too involved in their lives. There are some good reasons for it. They think what they are doing is right, and you have to show them it’s not. If you don’t, they’ll take you farther away than you’ll ever be able to come back from.”

Scott and Isaac are going to be spending a lot more time at the clinic.

\---

Stiles blacks out after fixing Isaac’s and Boyd’s eyes and wakes up surprised to find that his father has released him to Derek’s care.

The first thing he does is grab his throat. No bandages.

He sits up. He’s in a big bed with a wide array of blankets, one of which he recognizes from the hospital. There’s bright daylight everywhere. He’s still in sweats, but they’re not his. Maybe Scott’s. Derek is sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, fixing the wiring of a table lamp. His ears are small but stick out like a goofy little kid's. His jaw curves at an angle ridiculously close to square and stippled with coarse hair that looks uncontrollable.

“I thought you weren’t encouraging me,” Stiles says, clearing his throat when the words come out stilted from sleep.

“I’m on the floor,” Derek answers without turning around.

“How long have I been asleep... in your bed?”

“Less than a day. Your father had work but we didn’t want to leave you alone. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. What did I miss?"

"A few betas fawning over you." He picks up some pliers.

"Not Boyd, at least."

"Mmhmm."

Stiles finds a long blonde hair on his shirt. "No shit..." he says thoughtfully. "What else did I miss?"

"You've been to see the school counselor, right?" Derek slides a small ceramic lamp body in front of himself. His hand covers almost half of it easy.

"Yeah, a while ago," Stiles answers warily. "So I wouldn't get suspended."

"But you kept going," Derek says, fitting the wiring through the lamp body and pulling it into place.

"How do you know about that?" Stiles pulls the blankets toward himself, bunching them into a moat.

"I've smelled her on you before."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Stiles waves a hand in the air, "That does not sound right. She's like seven years older than me."

Derek finally turns around to lift a judgemental eyebrow at him, setting the lamp down on the hardwood floor. The unsecured parts rattle around inside it.

"Stiles, how old do you think I am?" he asks.

Stiles rubs a hand down his face. "Alright, a few years older than me. What's your point?"

Derek sighs and turns back to the lamp. The sheer white curtains on the windows bow gently towards them and Stiles realizes the windows are open. He hasn't been in here since they were still working on the house. He pulls the blankets over his shoulders to block out the winter breeze. Derek’s closet door is open and Stiles sees things in there. Colorful things. Like shirts. He makes plans to steal everything.

"Did you know that she’s a witch?” Stiles’ attention snaps back to Derek.

“Really?”

Derek’s head bobs in the affirmative. “Scott scented her while he was helping Deaton.”

“No wonder he’s not here panting all over me.”

“Stiles, please choose your words better,” Derek tells him, the lamp in front of him actually starting to look lamplike. It has a big harp and Stiles wonders what kind of shade is going on it.

"Sorry, baby. You know you're the only one I want panting over me."

Derek half turns and then thinks better of it. He makes more adjustments to his lamp.

"The counselor--"

"Ms. Morrell."

“Ms. Morrell has been keeping tabs on you since Peter turned Scott,” Derek says. He stands with his shadeless, bulbless lamp and sets it on the glossy wood dresser in front of him.

Stiles opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head. Derek turns around to look at him, finally. The curtains wave behind him, light in the room shifting like the sun is stretching its fingers into the house.

“Did you kill her?” Stiles asks.

“No.” Derek’s face scrunches up like Stiles just asked him if he was planning on eating only tic-tacs for the rest of his life. Stiles’ shoulders drop before he notices he’s had them squeezed up next to his ears.

"Alright, did you maim her or something?"

Derek crosses his arms and leans back against the dresser. "Do you want me to?"

"No!"

"Fine. I won't."

Stiles runs a hand down his face and sighs, turning towards a window on the other side of the room. "I don't think she did all this." Derek doesn't say anything. "She could have steered me away from you, but she didn't." A bird chirps as it flies by the window.

"I don't think she did either, but she helped." Derek is watching him when he turns back. "There's someone nearby, in the school. Since I can't maim Ms. Morrell, I don't think she'll be able to help."

"Lydia," Stiles says.

"What?" Derek frowns.

"She can figure out who it is," Stiles explains, a smile growing across his face. "It's perfect. No one would suspect, she's so popular. And I never told Ms. Morrell she was with the pack. And, you know, she's a genius." Stiles starts looking around, lifting the blankets one by one and leaning over both sides of the bed.

"What are you looking for?"

"My phone, my phone! I'll text her right now. What time is it?"

"Two o'clock," Derek answers. He pulls Stiles' phone out of his pocket and tosses it on the bed. Stiles throws himself down to snatch it up and starts texting furiously.

"An hour. I bet she can figure it out in an hour." Stiles grins at the screen, replies to a message he gets from Lydia, and throws the phone across the room in victory. It sails out a window, clatters across the roof and is then silent. " Oops ."

"Did you just throw your phone out the window?" Derek asks.

"I didn't think it was going to go that far." Stiles laughs.

"Why did you just throw your phone out the window?" Derek rubs one of his temples.

"Now it's just you and me, and subtext." Stiles smiles up at him from where he's still belly-down on the bed.

"Let the witches come and murder us both," Derek mutters.

"I seem to recall another situation where it was just the two of us."

Derek covers his eyes with one hand.

"In a room. With a bed."

"Stiles..." Derek groans.

"You were kissing me."

"Your dad will kill me." Derek drops his hand to glare at Stiles. Once again, Stiles is not properly intimidated.

"My dad isn't here. Also, murder or maiming are thinkable offenses, but not kissing?" Stiles pushes himself up on his elbows. "Even though you just did it a couple of days ago, and we've pretty much been silently dating for over a year, and you totally, obviously want some of this."

Derek huffs, crosses his arms, but doesn't deny anything.

"What was that about, anyway? I was starting to get a little desperate, and then you just swanned in."

"Nothing. It was a mistake," Derek grits out.

Stiles drops his face onto the bed. "I love you, you piece of shit," he yells, his voice muffled by the mattress. He lifts his head back up. "Can you not tell by the witchy violence which is currently raining down upon Beacon County?"

Derek covers his face and turns away.

"Stop being such a huge fucking infant, and tell me what you want," Stiles demands, voice suddenly full of venom. How he can go from fragile to domineering at the drop of a hat, Derek will likely never know.

"I don't know," Derek answers, hand slapping against his thigh in a flail of frustration.

"Well think about it and get back to me," Stiles says bitterly. He throws the blankets off and clambers out of the bed. He's half way through storming out of the room when Derek grabs him and tosses him back onto the mattress. He bounces, still glaring as Derek crawls over him.

"What would you do in my position?" Derek asks, glaring back down at Stiles. Stiles doesn't respond, but Derek knows it's because whatever he wants to say would be too vicious. He probably has a really good answer.

"I'm not in your position," he says instead.

"I don't want you to leave." Derek hears Stiles’ heartbeat and breathing stutter, watches him blink. "God knows why," he adds, and Stiles punches him in the side.

"Then kiss me," Stiles says, so commanding he almost sounds passionless.

Derek rolls his eyes, but leans down and kisses the stupid eighteen-year-old child underneath him. Their lips press, and Stiles follows him as he draws back. Either he's been practicing with Scott or he's a fast learner. His hands find Derek's sides as he licks Derek's lip, and it's way hotter and less awkward than Derek imagined. Their teeth do knock together when their mouths open, but he just guides Stiles into a slower kiss, sucks his tongue into his mouth and presses him into the bed. Stiles' leg shifts and he can't help but kiss him harder. Who knew Stiles would be such a biter.

They kiss like that for a while, Stiles' hands roaming Derek’s back and neck, his breaths coming sharp and short under Derek’s weight. Derek doesn’t realize how breathless he is, too, until he finally pulls away, keeping Stiles pinned.

“A mistake, hm?” Stiles questions, eyes half-closed, mouth half-open. His lips are wet and red, and Derek is going to be fucked when the sheriff sees the stubble burn on his son’s face.

“I feel pretty fucking conflicted,” Derek snaps. Stiles’ eyes open wider.

“Why?”

Derek rolls off of Stiles with a sigh, and flops down on his back, their arms touching. He rubs a hand over his mouth.

“Oh, I don’t know, Stiles. You’re eighteen. Your father’s the sheriff. You’re human.” He pauses, and Stiles rolls onto his side to look at him. “I don’t understand what you want from me,” Derek mutters.

“I want to take you on a date. Buy you a bunch of flowers that you’ll hate. Have the most atrociously adorable Skype calls when I’m away, where you tell me you miss me like crazy because you don’t have any way to show me without saying it. Know that you’re not brooding in the woods because you refused to be my long distance boywolf while I’m at Stanford. Know that nobody else is going to come along and break your heart while I’m not here to eviscerate them. Also, sex. I kind of want to have the sex with you.” Stiles pauses, mouth still open, and Derek lifts an eyebrow at him. “The things I want in that category, I really want to go into, but I won’t. You, very naked, and--anyway. Obviously, I don’t just want sex with you. I’ve waited eighteen long years for sex, and homicidal witches could convince me to wait, you know, a little longer. I’m not suicidal. We’ve discussed this.”

“You’re rambling.”

“I’m explaining to you what I want from you, so your understanding won’t be in question, and I can stop trying to seduce you and storming off when I fail. Or at least so you’ll make some sort of decision that doesn’t leave me half clung to your stupid lips with a sword of Damocles hanging over not only our relationship, but my young life.”

They stare at each other, Stiles scowling.

“I’m in love with you, is what I’m saying. In case you didn’t get the memo.” He slaps Derek lightly on the head. “And you should use words to reassure me now, because I just talked a lot about my feelings and I kind of want to retch.”

“I feel like I should give you a key to my house or something,” Derek says.

“I already have a key to your house. And a drawer. It’s in Erica’s room, but still.”

“You want to have Skype dates?” Derek asks, skeptical.

“You don’t?”

“You really don’t see any problems with this?” Derek asks.

Stiles sighs. “I did, of course. But now I can’t really go back on it, can I?”

“You could go back on it, Stiles,” Derek answers, turning his head to stare at the ceiling.

“I can practically hear that glass heart of yours shattering into a thousand tiny pieces at the mere thought of losing me,” Stiles says dryly. “I’m not going back on anything. I’ve made my bed and I’m totally going to drag you down onto it so we can fuck before I’m killed by a witch.”

“You are not going to get killed by a witch,” Derek growls, glaring at the ceiling.

“You promise to Skype me if I don’t?”

“Yes, Stiles.”

“You promise to get naked? To get me naked? To put your naked on my naked?”

“These sound like the worst wedding vows I have ever heard.”

Stiles’ hand comes into view over his face, little finger out like he’s holding an invisible tea party in Derek’s bedroom. “Pinky promise?”

Grudgingly, Derek loops his pinky with Stiles’.

“Remember a couple of months ago?” Stiles asks, pulling Derek’s hand back down, fingers still connected. “When you wouldn’t even admit you liked me back? And I said, ‘I’m going to win’?”

“I have to go pick up my betas,” Derek replies morosely.

“Help me find my phone first.”

\---

The phone is stuck in a gutter, so Stiles gets to watch Derek scale the house to retrieve it. He pitches it down, and Stiles catches it one-handed. Lacrosse, werewolves. He’s got some moves. The first person he texts, as Derek leaps down two stories, is Scott.

“your bff has got game” is what the offensive-even-to-Stiles text message says. Derek drags him to the Camaro as he reads a message from Lydia. She wants to meet at his house later that night, after dark. He files it away, pleased. Scott texts back, “ew.”

His dad’s cruiser is in the driveway next to his Jeep when Derek pulls up in front of his house.

“I’ll text you later,” Stiles tells him, and opens the passenger door only to be yanked back by his shirt.

“Tell me as soon as you talk to Lydia,” Derek says, face close, eyes drifting to Stiles’ ever open mouth.

“Do you want to--”

Derek catches him with a kiss,  immediately tongues  and a grip on Stiles’ jaw. He breaks away and rubs at Stiles’ chin.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Derek says, and shoves Stiles out of the car.

Instead of greeting him when he walks in, Stiles’ dad looks at his face, mutters something about mercy killing, and turns back into the kitchen. Stiles honestly does not want to know.

The sheriff has the night off, and Stiles gets lucky because he's not subjected to any awkward interrogations. It does feel a little like he's being guarded. His dad lets him pick the movie, and they get takeout.

Stiles texts Lydia around 8 o'clock, and she just responds with, "Later." He leaves their plight in her capable hands, trusting that she'll contact him when she's on her way. At eleven the sheriff heads to bed. Stiles takes a shower and certainly doesn't spend most of it imagining Derek naked. Then he gets into his own bed with the phone on high next to his ear and the ash bat poking him in the shoulder.

When he wakes up it's not to the sound of his phone or the window sliding open before Derek or Scott crawl inside. It's to the crackle and hollow roar of fire. His nose and throat burn with smoke, and he's blinded by the sting of it when he opens his eyes.

He rolls off the bed, coughing so hard he gags, trying to suck a breath through the dusty carpet. Everything is sharp, the ground a scrape against his fingers and face. He half crawls, half drags himself to the door. His calls for his father stick in his mouth. He thinks he’s going to die, and he really doesn’t want to die.

He makes it to the hallway. The air is a little clearer, and he pushes on just as his dad is falling out of his own room, coughing Stiles’ name. They grasp at each other, pushing and dragging themselves toward the stairs. There’s more fire. Everything they own, the house Stiles grew up in, is being devoured by an unchallengeable force. Part of the stairs collapse with a shudder and groan, flames waving and sparks spinning upward. Stiles feels his father’s fingers pressing into him like rocks as he’s thrown back into the master bedroom.

“The window!” he manages to yell at Stiles, and they silently struggle over to where it used to be before everything was smoke and confusion.

As Stiles claws his way along the wall he realizes he can't hear any alarms or sirens. They find the window, cracked open by the grace of god, and his father shoves him against it. Stiles pries it wide and feels a flash of heat behind them. He tumbles half way out into the cold night, gasping for the clean air.

“Go! Go!” his father is shouting hoarsely. He scrambles onto the slim roof with smoke billowing out around him, then turns back to help his dad. But he slips. His toes slide across the tiles, his body slamming down in painful slow motion. He skids along, hits the edge, and rolls off the roof. He can hear his father yelling his name as he falls.

\---

Fire is something Derek wakes up with sometimes, the smoke of a dream where he was close enough to watch his family burning. He and Laura had been at school. They hadn’t seen it happen, and he guesses they were lucky for it. But the smoldering shell of the house, the morgue visits, those were more than enough to let him imagine it and dream of it.

He smells smoke in the preserve sometimes, but a brush fire smells nothing like a house fire.

That Stiles doesn’t text him isn’t much of a concern, and Stiles should rest. He doesn’t need to get excited or unruly over Derek crawling into his bedroom just to check on him. When Derek is less than a mile from the house, he knows he was right to come anyway.

Scott joins him in his sprint through backyards just a few houses down. The sky is orange with light from the fire, smoke rising high, and everything is silent except the roar of it.

“What happened?” he shouts as Scott comes alongside him.

“I don’t know! I smelled smoke, I came running!”

Derek grabs him by the arm as they cross into the front yard of the house. The heat brings them both to a grinding halt. Something inside collapses.

“Call 911,” Derek commands.

“Derek, wait--”

Derek throws off the hand Scott tries to stop him with, sprinting around to the other side of the house. The fire is everywhere, alive and flashing. The house looks like it could sag and collapse at any moment. There can’t be anyone left inside there. They would have to be dead. He feels frozen, staring at the second story. Anyone inside...

He scales to the second floor, hardly feels the heat burning his face or the smoke in his eyes. Stiles’ window is closed, and there’s too much flame dancing inside his room, licking across the empty bed and up the walls. The sheriff’s window is wide open, spitting fire and smoke. And there’s someone there, just past the frame, hardly alive.

Derek hauls the man through the window, rolling him over onto the roof. He chokes on the air, coughs painfully, curling into himself. Tears cut tracks through the soot on his weathered face.

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek yells over the roar of the fire.

“Out. He fell,” Stilinski manages to croak, opening his eyes to look at Derek. Derek knows what that look is. He’s afraid Stiles might be dead.

“Scott!”

Together they get the sheriff off the roof, carrying him to the roadside, away from the heat of the fire for the ambulance they can finally hear coming.

“We’ll find him,” Derek promises when they leave him lying on the grass.

Stiles isn’t anywhere around the house.

“Call Allison, tell her to check on Lydia. Something went wrong. This is the Argents’ problem too. When you have everything taken care of, I want you to follow me.”

“Wait, where are you going? You can’t go after him by yourself,” Scott objects.

“I can track Stiles better than you can,” Derek says. “Follow me.”

Scott frowns, hesitating before he nods. “Call the pack. Let them know they’ve got more than one of us to answer to,” he says.

Derek almost smiles, nodding. Scott turns back to the road, and Derek walks in the opposite direction. He hunts.

\---

Stiles has been dragged before, more times than you would guess. He’s woken up being dragged, and he’s passed out while being dragged. The last time he was dragged, it was by Isaac, who pulled him half way across a clearing by one foot. Which is why Stiles is careful about how he sasses Isaac.

The most memorable dragging, aside from the one he is currently experiencing, came care of Gerard Argent. Stiles woke up to find that not only was he being dragged by a homicidal maniac of a werewolf hybrid, he was closer to dying by literally falling apart than anyone ever should be. Suffice to say Stiles is way too familiar with what his own scream sounds like and how shitty it is to be dragged anywhere.

He wakes up when his head hits a root. There are branches above him, passing across the starry night sky. He jerks his feet down as hard as he can, breaking the hold someone has on him, and rolls off to the side, jumping up.

He jumps right into a person, and stumbles back. The moon is almost full, bright enough to see by. He’s surrounded by an assortment of staring faces. They’re all dressed in dark clothes, but otherwise look weirdly normal. He was expecting robes or something. But he doesn’t know why he would think that, it’s not like Deaton or Ms. Morrell wear robes. Anyway.

He coughs, and, right, he’s just almost choked on a house full of smoke. His house. His dad. His eyes narrow at the people around him.

Someone steps through the trees toward him, crunching dead leaves and twigs. A tall, plain looking man with glasses.

“Holy shit, you!” Stiles shouts. “Of fucking course.”

Beacon Hills High’s most notorious new slavedriver of a history teacher smiles at him. Stiles is pretty sure he’s getting an F, which sucks. The last essay he wrote was awesome.

“Stiles, we didn’t want it to come to this,” he says calmly. The rest of the witches don’t say anything.

“Then you shouldn’t have set my house on fire,” Stiles hisses back.

The teacher-- Mr. Giles , he’s pretty sure, but he hasn’t really been attending class--holds up his hands. “We didn’t bring you out here to fight.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought me out here.” Stiles’ back straightens, and a few of the witches shift in their places.

Mr. Giles steps closer.

“We don’t want to hurt you. We want you to come with us. You belong with us, Stiles. We’ve heard so much about you. We just want to make sure you get what you need.”

“That is the most cliche bad guy drivel I have ever heard. I mean, do you even hear yourself right now?”

“We’re trying to protect you. You’re special. We can give you a new home,” Mr. Giles says.

Stiles thinks about his house, his dad shouting, surrounded by fire. Heat rises in his chest.

“You tried to kill me,” he says, voice low. “My dad...” The witch who had been dragging him takes a step, and Stiles turns to him, glares until he steps back. They don’t know what Stiles can do. They’re scared, and they should be. Stiles is scared that his dad is dead, that he’s alone. And he’s angry that these people did this to him.

“You know you’re too close to Hale’s pack,” Mr. Giles says, voice finally clean of persuasion. He folds his hands. “We left you warnings, tried to lead you back, but you were too stubborn. Deaton betrayed us. He should have helped you.”

“He did help me.”

“No pack can have one of us, Stiles. The power of a wolf pack is corruptive. Their energy is too savage.”

Stiles scans the witches, but none of them seem to react to what Mr. Giles is saying. Then he notices that one of them is holding his bat. So they’re thieves too.

“If you turn,” Mr. Giles continues, and Stiles looks back at him, “you won’t be human, and you won’t be loup garou. You’ll be a demon.”

“How the hell would you know?” Stiles snaps.

“Trust us, Stiles. This is one of our oldest rules.”

“If you don’t come with us, we kill you,” a short blonde woman behind Giles says.

“Yeah, or option C,” Stiles retorts. They’re all silent, waiting for him to elaborate.

A cold breeze cuts through the trees. Far off, a wolf howls. Stiles’ heart speeds.

“Option C?” Giles asks.

“I teach  you  a lesson,” Stiles explains, and mutters just a few words.

\---

When Derek howls, the pack howls back. As a kid, it was always a thrilling occasion. Mom howls, dad answers, kids, aunts, uncles, cousins. The woods were full of noise, of family. He howls long, low, high, and then low again. He waits, then an answer comes. Erica’s is like music. Boyd and Isaac clamour for the same volume. After they’ve been silent for a beat, Scott’s rough call. Another wolf in their territory raises his hackles, but it’s an ally. His pack will be with him soon.

Derek stumbles, his path suddenly cut short. He’s disoriented for a moment, then realizes it’s Stiles’ spell to confuse werewolf senses. Why would Stiles want to keep them from finding him?

Derek shakes himself, centers, takes a deep breath through his mouth. He doesn’t need to scent Stiles in order to find him. If Stiles can cast this spell, he needs help now. Derek stops thinking and runs.

\---

Witches are really crafty. Obviously--witchcraft. But Stiles is a little shit, and no one’s ever claimed to know someone craftier.

There were eight of them to begin with, and three are on the ground now, silent, maybe dead. He’s not sure. He’s thinking about his dad, and he’s struggling to care.

Giles has a nasty cut under his eye, and the underbrush has all been cleared so Stiles can’t pull that one again. Stiles walks to the roots of a tree, where his bat was dropped. He picks it up. It feels good in his hands, even if it wasn’t meant for this sort of thing.

A thin brunette is suddenly on him and he swings, connecting with a crack. The man goes down, and Stiles has blood on his face and hands. It makes him feel sick, but better now that there are only four. The man lies face down at his feet. There’s blood in his hair. Stiles swallows and looks back up.

Giles, the blonde, a muscular black woman, and a pale man face him. Gills looks to the body at Stiles’ feet and back up.

“Do you want to be a killer, Stiles?” he asks.

“No. Do you?” Stiles wipes his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

“You will be,” Giles says.

“You might be! You left my father to die in that house!” Stiles yells. “Maybe I should set this whole forest on fire and see how much you like it.”

“You couldn’t,” the blonde says. The wind blows strong suddenly, chilling Stiles to the bone and whistling through the trees. He has an idea.

Stiles licks his lips, the taste of soot strong on his tongue, and whistles.

The air literally catches fire. It streams out, flairs in front of the blonde. She screeches and falls backward. Then it goes out. It’s the first time Stiles has seen magic make something he could see, and he gapes at what he’s just managed.

“Kill him,  Gills !” she shrieks. Okay, so Giles might not be his name. Stiles was close.

“We wanted to give you a chance,” Gills says. “We saw the bat and we knew you were something special, Stiles. But you’re too young. We can’t let a pack take you.” He raises his hand slowly, and an honest to god wolf rises out of the dirt next to him.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Stiles mutters. He hefts the bat, and the wolf growls at him.

\---

Derek is still with fear. His heart is loud in his ears, his breathing even. He can tell the pack is close, but he hasn’t found Stiles.

The wind is strong and cold, picking up. It whistles through the forest he’s so used to roaming, and then, above it, he hears Stiles.

Stiles can only whistle one way. He licks his lips, and blows like he’s calling a dog. It’s weak, but always sharp in Derek’s ears. He hates it, but now he has plans to love it.

He bursts through the brush, leaving a trail for Scott and the others.

When he reaches Stiles, it’s to the sound of Stiles yelling in pain, and the yelp of a dog. Stiles is on the ground, spattered in blood, holding his thigh with one hand, his bat in the other. A wolf is limping away from him.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps. Stiles’ eyes widen at the sight of him. He’s surrounded by bodies, some of them with dangerously slow heartbeats. One might be dead already. He steps in front of Stiles and turns to the four figures watching them. He bares his fangs and growls. They don’t move. The wolf falls to the ground, whining.

“That shouldn’t have stopped it,” the one in front says.

“The bat’s for all wolves, you douche,” Stiles bites out. “Can’t you read Sanskrit?”

“Are you okay?” Derek asks.

“I could use some medical attention,” Stiles admits. Derek shifts his foot back, and feels Stiles’ fingers close around his ankle, reassuring.

“Gills--”

“Shut up, Marina.”

“How did you find me?” Stiles asks quietly.

“I told you,” Derek growls. “I don’t need to scent you. Why did you try to stop me?”

“Have you noticed how many people here ended up on the ground?”

Derek’s eyes flick around. “They’re not all dead.”

“... But some of them are?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Derek, my house--”

“I pulled your dad out. I’m sure he’s worried sick.”

Stiles’ fingers clench. “Thank you.” Derek hears him take a shuddering breath.

“You should leave,” Derek says to the witches, “if you value your throats.” As if on cue, Scott, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd step through the trees behind him.

“I agree,” Allison says, drawing her bow a few feet to Gill’s left. Chris Argent silently follows her lead.

“Your dad’s being treated for smoke inhalation, Stiles. He’ll be fine,” Chris says.

Derek can hear Stiles’ heart stammering like he’s still afraid.

“I won’t ever go with you,” he says. “And if you want to kill me, all of these people are going to make it hard on you.”

“This is what Deaton meant,” the black woman says.

“The boy who lies with wolves,” the pale man whispers.

“It’s pack strength, Gills. This isn’t the same.”

“He’s already one of them.”

Marina glares at Stiles. Gills raises his hand, and the whining wolf sinks back into the ground.

“We won’t come after him again,” Gills says to Derek. “But if you try to turn him, you’d better hope he dies from the bite.” His eyes turn to Stiles. “There’s reason behind what we do.”

“Yeah, you’re an asshole,” Stiles says.

“Sorry, you’re gonna have to carry these guys out yourselves,” Scott adds.

“Hope they don’t die,” Erica says flatly.

“Let’s go.” Derek turns around, dislodging Stiles’ hand, and leans over to help him up. Stiles drops the bat.

“Someone pick that up,” Stiles says in the Argents’ direction as he winds an arm around Derek’s neck. When it’s clear he can’t walk on his own, Derek lifts him up and carries him. Stiles rests his face in the crook of Derek’s neck and breathes in as Derek starts walking. Stiles lifts his head as they pass the betas.

“Oh, and Gills, I want an A!” he calls.

\---

The blood loss is substantial, but Stiles is told he’ll be able to walk fine, run and everything after it’s all healed. And Derek pulls the curtain while they’re in the emergency room so he can kiss Stiles senseless. He has Stiles half stripped before a nurse comes back to interrupt them.

Lydia glares from the next bed over, where she’s undergoing a slew of tests to find out how she suddenly developed debilitating narcoleptic tendencies that left her parked in the middle of the road on her way to Stiles’ house.

They lose everything in the fire except each other. Stiles and his father move in with the McCalls, at least until they can find something else. They finally get around to all the talks they needed to have, but with significantly less yelling than there might have been if they hadn’t both almost died.

About a week later things have finally died down. Everyone is back at school, mysteriously bruised and battered as usual. The history teacher is missing and their substitute doesn’t care about anything but chewing gum and drinking coffee.

Stiles’ Jeep is no worse for wear after he washes the ash and soot off it, and digs his keys out of the rubble of his house. He drives it over to Derek’s and knocks on the door.

“You never knock,” Derek greets, seeming annoyed. He’s barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt. Stiles can hear Erica and Isaac laughing in the house.

“Remember the world’s worst wedding vows?” Stiles asks, handing him a small purple flower with a crooked stem.

Derek grins, and it might be the first time Stiles has ever seen it and not been scared. “Erica, Boyd, Isaac,” he calls.

“What?” Boyd calls back.

“Go see a movie,” Derek says, looking at Stiles. “Walk there. Go see two,” he calls. Stiles smiles. “Then go for a run,” he adds.

Erica bellyaches while putting on her coat, but slings herself around Stiles when she steps outside. She crosses her arms over his chest from behind and kisses the back of his ear.

“Break his heart and I break your back, papa wolf,” she says and releases Stiles.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, pack dad,” Isaac grins at Derek as he follows Erica.

“Something lewd and along those lines, moon worshipping father figure,” Boyd adds dryly.

“Thanks, guys,” Stiles calls flatly as they disappear down the driveway. Derek drags him to the doorway by the front of his new shirt.

“When are you moving to Stanford?” Derek asks, kissing under one of Stiles’ eyes and then the other.

“Not until August.”

“I guess we’ll have to make the most of it.” Derek pulls him inside, mouths touching, and Stiles pulls the door shut behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my beautiful, wonderful friend and beta [beaularbear](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beaularbear/pseuds/beaularbear).


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